


we're just a box of souvenirs

by earlymorningechoes



Series: nainsí tabris: all i've got is two hands [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Family, Friendship, Gen, Nostalgia, Sentimental
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-24
Updated: 2017-09-24
Packaged: 2019-01-05 00:02:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12179067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earlymorningechoes/pseuds/earlymorningechoes
Summary: Nainsí is sentimental about things that remind her of her family. Her friends notice.





	we're just a box of souvenirs

“Well-loved,” comes Leliana's voice, from somewhere off to the left. 

“Hmm?” Nainsí responds, distracted, not looking up from the boots and leather oil in front of her as Leliana steps into the firelight, arrows and new fletching in hand. 

“Your boots,” she clarifies, and at this Nainsí does look up. “That's the best way to describe them, I think.”

Nainsí smiles, a bittersweet, melancholy smile of memory that Leliana knows well. “My mother made them,” she says, caressing the embossed vines twisting around the ankles. “Before I was born. She made them to fit her own feet, so I'd grow into them and they'd be useful when I was an adult.”

The bitterness overpowers the sweet in her expression, and her voice is brittle when she continues. “My father gave them to me the day of...the day I left the alienage.” She doesn't elaborate, and Leliana knows there's more to that story but she doesn't push. 

They sit in companionable silence, the fire crackling and popping in front of them, as Nainsí continues tending to her boots and Leliana repairs the fletching of her arrows. Nainsí finishes first, slipping her feet back into the boots with a smile and getting to her feet. Leliana looks up as she stands, her own face peaceful in the firelight.

“They suit you. I would choose more...enticing footwear, for myself, but yours work well for you.”

Nainsí’s smile widens into a grin, and she crosses her arms in mock anger. “Are you saying I don't know what pretty shoes look like? I'm astonished, Leliana!”

There's a brief moment where Leliana can't quite work out how to respond, before a surprised laugh bursts out of her. “Practical  _ and _ fashionable, then?”

Nainsí bursts into laughter as well, a welcome reprieve from the stress of the past days. “You know me, what other kind of boots would I wear?”

\-----

Sparring with Zevran is an entirely different experience from sparring with the others - neither of them has any concept of fighting fair, and it lets them stretch their abilities to the limit. Which is how, instead of having a proper match, they've both ended up daggerless, grappling ridiculously on the ground instead. 

Rolling to keep him from putting her in a headlock, Nainsí sweeps his legs out from under him and rests her elbow on his chest once he falls. He grins, looking ready to tell her she's won, and then suddenly he's grabbed her necklace and she nearly punches him in the face before catching herself and double-tapping his shoulder. 

He lets go immediately, relaxing his hold so she can wriggle away from him, and she sits up cross-legged as he turns on his side and rests his head in his hand. They're silent for a few moments as he regards her with a quizzical look. 

“It was my cousin’s,” she says. He nods in understanding, thinking the conversation is done, but she keeps talking. “The day I left the alienage was...not good. The shems came and took us, just the women, and Shianni…”

She takes a deep breath before continuing, staring fixedly at the ground despite the weight of his gaze on her shoulders. “They made an ‘example’ of her. Soris and I - our other cousin - he and I fought through the arl’s home to look for her. They'd taken her things, thrown them around the building like they were trash. She didn't want them back.”

His hand slides into her vision, slowly, about to rest on her knee. It's meant to be comforting, she knows, but she tenses up involuntarily and shakes her head. He pulls back immediately, apologetic, and she nods once.

“I kept it, because I knew I wouldn't be able to stay. Not after killing the arl’s son, no matter what he had done. And if I had something of Shianni’s with me, then maybe everything wouldn't be so terrible, you know?” 

He nods, a small smile breaking into his sympathetic expression as he lifts one Antivan leather boot-clad foot towards her. “Something from home makes all the difference.”

\-----

They’re accosted by bandits on the road between Amaranthine and the Vigil, and after a short, one-sided skirmish, Nainsí bends down to clean the blood off her weapons. Sigrun joins her with a confused shake of her head. “You know we've got better daggers than that one, right?”

Nainsí looks down at the dagger in her hand, the hilt worn smooth from generations of hands and the color of the blade slightly warped from age. It's not a pretty dagger, she knows, but her heart squeezes painfully at the thought of giving it up.

“It was my mother’s,” she says, sliding it carefully into its sheath on her back. “And in my family for a long time before it came to her. My father says it’s called the Fang of Fen’Harel - one of the old elven gods, I think. Apparently they used it to defend the Dales, when the Chantry came.”

Sigrun’s eyes crinkle in thought, her tattoos distorted. “Wasn't that a very long time ago? Velanna talks about it like it was ages ago. How does a dagger survive that long?”

Nainsí tilts her head, chewing slightly on her bottom lip. “I've never thought about it, but you're right. Ancient elven magic, maybe?” She reaches back and pulls the dagger out again, turning it over in her hands. It doesn't look any different from any other daggers she's seen, the only visible magic the thin lines and swirls of the fire runes etched into the blade. She shrugs, putting it away again and starting off to catch up with Velanna and Nathaniel.

“Even if it is ancient magic or something, that's not why I keep using it. It's just...it was my mother’s. It's not just a dagger. It reminds me of her. And my father gave it to me as a reminder of him and of home.”

“Like your boots?” Sigrun asks, the usual playful bent creeping back into her voice. Nainsí looks down at her boots, much the worse for wear at this point, and nods with a laugh of her own. 

“Exactly like my boots.”


End file.
